Thursday, March 29, 2007

I love songs that linger on even after they've seemingly ended. It's as if they're reluctant to let go and the music still keeps playing long after the main theme has ended. It's such a calm experience as the song finally sizzles down into just music. I've been repeatedly listening to two such songs all day - "Five Combs" by Fridge and James Figurine's "55566688833". I think this effect is also partly the reason I love GNR's "November Rain". The beautiful lyrics to the ingeniously titled "55566688833":

My phone's got a camera, it's built right inbut it's hard to keep the dirt and grease off the lensthe last time you were happy since so long ago nowI tried to take a picture but it didn't come out

and the messages sent are almost as blurredmy cryptic printstyles dials to songs no one’s heardif we keep this up, things will never get betterwhen we disagree we fight in capital letters

I have to type eleven numbers into my cell phoneJust to make it spell ‘love’So I usually don’tAnd it takes up fifteen digits to spell out ‘goodbye’But if I leave out the ‘good’ I can save us some time55566688833

my throat’s a little sore after last night’s eventsyou were somewhere doing somethingI was out with my friendsYou wrote just to ask if I was having funand I guess I didn’t text you back quite fast enoughSo when I got home you were awake in the denThere were tears in your eyes, the lights were dimmedI turned off my phone, you did the sameAnd we fought face-to-face like it was the 90s again

I have to type eleven numbers into my cell phoneJust to make it spell ‘love’So I usually don’tAnd it takes up fifteen digits to spell out ‘goodbye’But if I leave out the ‘good’ I can save us some time

Monday, March 19, 2007

The oil lamp lies in front of a potted tulsi plant. Enclosed within a wired mesh and set on a wooden pedestal, it is the only source of light in the balcony that also fuels this writing. A round shadow is cast all around the lamp with razor thin sparks emanating from its surface. The hollow wind is also sporadically wild and I watch the round shadow convulsing and expanding in perfect rhythmic harmonies with the wind. It is like watching a heart beat imperfectly; a young unfamiliar heart trying to rapidly find and adjust to the pace of the world around it. The dark shadow is a perfect circle, resembling a sunflower both in appearance and behavior. Its master is the light, be it the mighty sun or the miniscule lamp and it devotedly turns its face towards it and gaily hops around. Born from the light, it moves with the wind. The mosaic expanse that it rapidly covers is discernible both to the eye and through the silky touch of breeze across the cheek. From the golden flame and devoid of color, you transform the senses from touch to sight. I stand before you as I am, stripped of color and appearance and language, the atonal structure of my body in sharp contrast to your austere form and bow down in meek acceptance. You are my master, my guiding principle, my one source of light in the darkness of light. I will always be your disciple.